


sintering

by pseudocitrus



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: First Time, Fluff and Smut, Gap Filler, M/M, and once again self-indulgent as frICK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-15 22:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9259514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: Victor's problems can be set aside until after. No one needs to be bothered with how idiotic he feels right now, having packed up everything, every single last skating outfit and even Makkachin, to spend months of his life devoting himself utterly to a plan that he realizes now sounded absolutely crazy even to the person who originated it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> it took me so long to write, but, here is more self-indulgent yoi fluff, inspired by my feels from episode 10 ; ///// ; i hope u are havin a lovely day ❄️

“ _I didn’t even talk to Victor_.”

In the amiable stroll back to the hotel, Victor is free to hear those words re-emerge and echo, over and over again.

_“I didn’t even talk to Victor.”_

Presently, the group is dispersing, light-heartedly. Everyone waves farewells as the elevator opens and shuts and resumes crawling up the floors of the Grand Prix’s official hotel. Finally, only the two of them are left. They wait, in silence.

“ _I didn’t even talk to Victor_.”

Victor clears his throat. “Tired, Yuri?”

“Ah…yeah.”

“We had a pretty great day, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Yuri keeps his face turned forward. At the door to their room, Yuri’s right hand finally exits his pocket to fumble for the keys.

“Ahh!” Victor sighs, loudly. “It’s nice to be back home, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Yuri says, after a pause. He shuts the door. Victor waits, unraveling his scarf from his neck. When Yuri remains quiet, he turns and removes Yuri’s scarf as well, unwinding it carefully, so as to have the opportunity to examine Yuri’s expression more closely.

Yuri’s gaze evades him. His hair is ruffled somewhat from the act of removing the scarf, and Victor smooths it a bit, and then throws both scarves onto the bed, followed by his coat, his sweater, pants…

“I’m going to take a bath,” he announces, continuing to shed clothing on the way to the bathroom door. He glances over with an inviting smile. “Want to join me?”

Yuri blinks. “Ah…um…”

“Of course,” Victor offers, not looking at him as he continues to strip, “you could also get an early start on sleeping before tomorrow,” and Yuri nods and says, “Yeah, yeah…that’s what I was thinking.”

Everything’s off now, except the ring.

“Goodnight, then, Yuri.”

“G-goodnight, Victor.”

Victor shuts the bathroom door.

:::

Once safely inside, he starts the water, and uses the sound of it to deafen his sigh. He grimaces at himself in the mirror.

_“I didn’t even talk to Victor.”_

_Seriously?_

Yuri had even seemed pleased about it.

_SERIOUSLY?_

Victor’s grimace deepens as steam begins to cloud the mirror’s edges.

He always waved off his own forgetfulness towards others. Maybe this is a fitting return.

:::

The hotel bathroom lacks the atmosphere of Hasetsu, which he knew already, but somehow he’d sort of hoped anyway that the hot water would relax him, rather than cause his feelings to steep. He reclines, staring at the ceiling.

“ _Yuri,_ ” he imagines himself saying. “ _Listen. I just have one question: Seriously?_ ”

Victor snorts, sinks down and exhales a stream of bubbles. No way. He doesn’t even need to put on his special coach persona to know this is absolutely last thing Yuri needs the night before the Grand Prix.

This can be set aside until after. No one needs to be bothered with how idiotic he feels right now, having packed up everything, every single last skating outfit and even Makkachin, to eight months of his life devoting himself utterly to a plan that he realizes now sounded absolutely crazy even to the person who originated it.

He soaks, eyes closed.

It’s been a while. Yuri is probably asleep by now, right?

He gives it another couple minutes before he stands and pulls the drain. The golden ring clinks against everything he touches — the tub’s edge, the towel rack. He dries off and for a moment isn’t sure if he should take the ring off and dry it, and his hand, individually. In the end, he leaves it on.

Victor opens the door back to the main room, and blinks. His voice is started, and dismayed.

“Yuri,” he says. “You’re still awake?”

Yuri scratches his head. His brows are furrowed, his mouth drawn taut. Victor considers.

_Maybe he’s nervous?_

“Do you want some tea?” Victor asks brightly, despite his near-immediate realization that he isn’t sure where to get tea or even if it would be the kind that Yuri would like.

“Um…no…it’s not that.”

A miss. What else can he do? Get sleeping medicine? Rip the clothes off him and stuff him under the sheets like in China?

No…waiting for Yuri to uncurl himself is still probably the best option. Victor sets his hands on Yuri’s shoulders, gazing at him with what he hopes is a combination of coachly devotion and firmness. Yuri swallows.

“Victor…”

Oh, no. It has something to do with him.

Victor remains patient and prevents his grip from tightening as Yuri continues to stumble.

“Victor. Did you…have something you wanted to say to me?”

“Yes,” Victor says, after a moment. “Of course I did. And it’s that you need to rest.”

Yuri sets his hands together. His fingers, when they interlock, jerk apart at the feeling of the ring there — still new, still foreign. Idly, he twists it. Then, he takes a breath. His next words burst out of him.

“What happened? At…at the banquet. Did I really…do all those things? That everyone mentioned?”

 _And more,_ Victor thinks, but, the thought of saying so gives him an abrupt and vivid image of Yuri screaming and attempting in vain to bury himself beneath the hotel bed. Victor straightens, thinking carefully.

“You know, it was a long time ago,” Victor tells him brightly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worrying about it,” Yuri protests, weakly. Anxiety is making him stoop. Victor takes Yuri’s chin and tilts it up.

“To be honest, Yuri,” Victor tells him, “that night, you were very…hm. What’s the right word? You were…cool.”

Yuri reddens.

“I’m serious,” Victor laughs, already anticipating Yuri’s next protest.

“Cool” about covers it, right? The energy and grace and even the enthusiastic raggedness of his every motion back then. Taking on Yurio and Christophe and even Victor himself. “Cool” probably even covers the surprising warmth of Yuri’s arms around him, leading him across the floor in front of everyone, hand grazing his cheek. “Cool” even covers his gleamy gaze as Yuri had clutched him with excitement and supplication, though, the moment Victor thinks this, he also feels a stab of concern for himself and what’s become of him. He shakes his head. Anyway.

“You and me had a particularly good time, all night long,” Victor purrs, unable to help himself. “I thought about it every day.”

Spinning around dozens of times on the ice at high speed had never made him feel as lightheaded as he did then.

Presently, Yuri turns even redder. His mouth screws up.

“R-really? All…all night…”

“It was really good,” Victor assures him. “I can’t remember ever having had so much fun.”

Every single word he’s said thus far has been carefully selected to soothe him, but instead, Yuri is looking even more and more distressed.

“I’m sorry,” Yuri bursts suddenly. “I’m really sorry, Victor. I’m really sorry I forgot.”

He _really_ sounds choked up with regret. Instantly, any lingering bitterness congealed inside of him melts away, leaving behind only a sheepish regret and another feeling, something else that’s unmistakably, remarkably saccharine.

“It’s nothing, Yuri,” Victor tells him, setting his hands on his shoulder, and Yuri looks at him, with the kind of firmness that indicates he’s really doing his best to make himself do it.

“It’s not nothing to _me_. I — I really hoped that maybe — it would be —” He loses it; he wrenches his gaze away. “I guess at the very least I hoped our first time would be something I’d remember.”

:::

Not for the first time that night, Victor’s brain comes to a shocked halt, and just as quickly starts up again, at incredible pace. Everything snaps together so fast and harshly that he’s surprised it doesn’t deafen what he says next.

“Yuri,” Victor gasps. “Did you think we _slept together_?”

Yuri’s face is rapidly resembling a ripe tomato. _Yes_ , the horrified hue says. _That’s exactly what I thought_.

Victor can’t help it, then; he laughs, so hard the towel tucked in against his waist loosens and requires him to hold onto it with fingers enfeebled by his own hysteria.

“We didn’t,” Victor manages, through a thin sheen of tears. “We didn’t even get close. Yuri, Yuri, there’s no _way_ I would have slept with you.”

“R-right,” Yuri says quickly, “sorry, I — I guess — I’m sorry, it’s so stupid of me to even think — something like — that you’d want to —”

Yuri quiets with every word and finally trails off, his voice crushed by his own shame, and Victor’s tears take on a slightly more depressed quality.

_I’m a terrible coach._

“That’s not what I meant! What I meant is that I would never let myself sleep with someone as drunk as you were then.” Victor shakes him, trying to make the words permeate, trying to dislodge Yuri from the miasma he can practically see flooding his entire body. “Yuri, I could tell you that you spent half the night dancing with me and the other half twisted around a pole with Christophe and you wouldn’t even have enough memory to convince yourself it didn’t happen.”

“I’d definitely remember something like that,” Yuri mutters. But he sounds a little annoyed, which is an improvement. He clears his throat.

“So…so, um, you didn’t…I mean…we didn’t.”

“No. We didn’t.”

Poor Yuri. Precious Yuri. Victor holds a hand to Yuri’s face. Once upon a time, he wanted to seal Yuri’s miseries up with a kiss — just take his face and draw it up, taste the chill and then the heat of his mouth, the gentle salt of the tears on his cheeks.

In his mind, pieces of a certain love story have been sliding into place, for some time. One motion would dip and rise into the next, graceful, as beautiful as any choreographed program. If he were the only the only figure in this story, he could make the next leap all on his own. There would be no need for egos, for fumbling with words — only a simple kiss. And maybe another. And another.

But. Victor purses his lips a little, grazes his tongue lightly against them, manages to control himself. It’s not just him, anymore. Even so, despite his uncertainties and his suppressions, this path feels…better. More right.

“Victor?” Yuri calls, and Victor blinks at him. Ah…whoops. Victor smiles. His hand drops.

“Sorry. I was thinking about…something else.”

“Victor,” Yuri repeats, and something about his voice this time makes all the hairs on Victor’s nape stand on end.

“Yes?” Victor asks. “What would you like, Yuri?”

In his mind, he’s wondering again, about tea, or maybe just plain water, with fresh ice. He’ll watch Yuri drink the whole glass, and then tease him out of his clothing, and tuck him gently, chastely, beneath the sheets. Yuri nibbles his lip.

“Victor. The, um…thing you did…in China. You never did it again, but I was wondering…if maybe you could….”

“What ‘thing?’” Victor laughs. “Yuri. I’ll do anything for you. Just spit it out already.”

Yuri takes a breath.

“Kiss me. Please — please kiss me.”

:::

Victor looks at him with surprise. But Yuri meets his gaze levelly. His lips are set, half with embarrassment and half with determination. Taking nothing back.

Poor Yuri. Precious Yuri. Victor smiles at him, in a way he can’t completely control. Rather than answer, he takes Yuri’s face, and bends.

Just a peck is what he intends, something no more than the skim of their mouths, like in China’s rink.

But when their lips meet, Yuri’s hands slip against his waist, and the metal of the ring is so cold it sets a shock up Victor’s side, and when he gasps Yuri’s mouth also opens, and the result is the slightest press of their tongues together, hot and soft and with a sweetness that punctures straight between the ribs.

Victor stumbles — his hands move, seeking balance — he feels Yuri’s body through his sweater and shirt, and rather than being steadied he feels even more displayed. The room around him flickers, overlaid with desire for Yuri’s skin, his to do what he wants, to smooth and shape and devour, away from audiences and judges.

Yuri stiffens, and a moment later his fingers dig, and the next thing Victor knows is Yuri’s heart opening even wider, and Victor, terrible coach that he is, losing his footing, and falling right inside it.

:::

It’s the first time Yuri has been like this. Yuri feels him and Victor searches in vain for his usual shyness, his usual trepidation, and finds only a firm, blind selfishness as Yuri takes him, anywhere he likes. Victor can’t believe it. This is the first time.

 _No_ , he realizes. _The second_.

All the katsudon in the world is no match. All the everything else in the world doesn’t even come close. Caught in the tides of his own enthusiasm, Victor pauses wildly to catch his breath and adjust his towel, which is rapidly becoming too tight, and then much too loose. Before he can keep it from falling, Yuri shifts, drawing him even closer, pushing him off balance, and the result is that they topple onto the bed, with Victor on top of him, just as naked as he’s been before but with the addition of also being completely transparent.

For the first time in a long time, Victor feels his face heat. But before he can hide anything, Yuri looks down. And then, before he can say anything, Yuri looks back up at him, breathless, his glasses glinting from the room’s lamp light.

Then, Yuri starts to unbuckle his pants.

:::

 _Wait a minute_ , a voice tries, with some alarm. _Wait. Wait. Is this the right thing to do?_

Victor fumbles, trying to remember. The…Grand Prix. The Grand Prix. Is tomorrow. Is this really the — the right thing to be — to be, um…

What’s happening again?

Oh — oh, yes — Yuri is — putting his hands all over Victor’s body — Yuri is, um — kissing — more of him — his mouth missing Victor’s and continuing to fall, down Victor’s throat, his rapidly bobbing Adam’s apple —

“Yuri,” Victor tries, but his voice emerges as something of a moan, and Yuri shivers and swallows and…

Draws…

To a halt.

“Keep going,” Victor gasps, before he can stop himself, and Yuri says, “R-right, okay,” but his fingers do nothing but scrape Victor’s back. He swallows and reaches down between their bodies, and then stops. Then he swallows, again.

He doesn’t know, Victor realizes, with shock, and relish. He doesn’t know what to do next. Yuri looks up, his eyes glittery with seeking, and Victor’s heart overflows.

 _Okay. Yes. Yes. Anything_. He can’t resist him. He kisses him; then, their bodies align, heated, and rock together, slowly, until Yuri relaxes and breathes staggeringly, until they work out a rhythm that makes them feel less like two bodies and more like one.

Then Victor, with great difficulty, straightens, and reaches for the drawer beside Yuri’s bed.

:::

Alright. Maybe Victor had some vague hopes of how things might turn out here, some very skeptical wishes that he’d nevertheless decided to be responsible about, just in case. A coach has to be responsible, after all. Victor takes a moment to congratulate his own foresight.

In any case. Yuri clearly never bothered opening this drawer, because his eyes are wide when Victor retrieves the lube.

“What’s —” he starts, and then bites his question shut when Victor tears the packet and pinches the contents into his palm.

He’s had more daydreams than he could possibly count, of having Yuri like this — in his grasp — beneath him. Victor warms the lube between his hands, and Yuri watches him, chest heaving with arousal, and apprehension. Prepared, Victor smiles, and then sits up. He reaches down to Yuri’s cock, bobbing shyly between them, and begins to stroke.

It’s warm. Hard, and getting even harder in the curl of his palm. Yuri covers his mouth, muffling himself, ineffectual. His eyes are squinched shut, and so he misses Victor settling his knees comfortably on either side of Yuri’s waist. Sooner than Victor expects, Yuri’s body begins to tremble. His knees crook up jerkily, and Victor pauses.

“Yuri,” Victor calls, and he waits for Yuri’s eyes to open and fix on him hazily before he takes Yuri’s cock again. He straightens, and points it between his own legs. He — starts to — lower — and —

“Victor,” Yuri gasps, when first contact is made, but the sound isn’t so much protest as it is astonishment. His voice squeaks, just a little, indicating his being overwhelmed, and Victor quickly lightens, rises up on his knees again, and then once again he lowers, pressing, this time — just — a little — deeper.

:::

It’s been a while. There are certain things that his body doesn’t forget, but this — is different, somehow, this — feels totally new. Victor feels his face warming like it’s his first time instead of Yuri’s, feels a self-consciousness he’d never thought he’d suffer again, finds himself fixated on Yuri’s expressions moving from shock to panic to helpless pleasure. He grips the sheets to steady himself and Victor unhooks him and clutches his hands instead, savoring each tremor. The rings glimmer. Victor sinks.

Something in him is entranced, captivated. The vision of Yuri this way feels as fresh and sparkling as the medal Victor wore first, back when medals seemed so light, back when his shoulders weren’t so heavied by them. There’s the same rush, the same breathlessness, feeling of being at a rollercoaster’s peak, of being excited for what’s coming next. He missed it. He missed it, and yet knows for certain that he’s never had this particular feeling ever before.

One last centimeter left. One last thrust, to take it. Victor shudders, yields to him, feels Yuri’s heat penetrate every vertebra. Flushed, he smiles down.

“There…there. How is it? Are you alright, Yuri?”

“Y-yes,” Yuri chokes. “I’m…good. I mean…it’s…good. You’re…good.”

Victor pretends to pout. “Just ‘good?’”

“I mean…I, uh, mean…” It looks like it’s taking everything in him to form these few distressed syllables. “I mean. Really good.”

“Oh…? Just wait.”

Victor gives Yuri time to catch a single breath, and then adjusts his grip, letting their fingers interlock. He squeezes, and begins, not without eagerness, to move. He rolls his hips back and forth — he makes, just a little, a show of it — he lets his breath go ragged and loud as he eases Yuri in and out, loudly relishes each centimeter of friction with moans he doesn’t bother to smother. He struggles to leash his ardor so as to keep a pace steady enough to allow him to observe Yuri as long as possible.

Poor Yuri. Precious Yuri. All that stamina means he keeps up gamely, even begins to row his hips, fruitless, as if to penetrate Victor even more deeply, as if it were any more possible to get closer. Yuri himself is close, getting closer, starting to look the way he might in the second half of the second half, and when he cries “Vi-Victor,” with a slur at the end just like one Victor remembers from a certain banquet, Victor smiles at him messily.

 _I want you_ , he thinks, and he grips Yuri hard, kisses and then bites him, lightly, as if assuring himself if his authenticity, like Yuri were something that he won on the ice. _You’re mine. You’re mine._

He’s never had a routine this long, _eight months,_ never really had the interest and never thought he had the endurance for it either, _eight months,_ and the coordination of their brushed hands and eventual embraces and dizzying velocity. Victor shuts his eyes and is about to culminate when Yuri’s grip on him shifts.

“Yu —” Victor gasps, but his voice chokes to a halt as Yuri withdraws, and twists, and throws him down, his spine arching on the mussed sheets. Their hands meet again, this time with Yuri’s weight pinning him. Their eyes meet, and Yuri’s gaze glistens again, with that dowsing rod gleam, _searching,_ and then he shifts around, uses his body to shift Victor’s legs around him.

This —

_Oh — o-oh —_

Victor tries to say Yuri’s name again, maybe, and fails. His throat constricts, and when it opens, to allow him a single labored breath, he finds Yuri’s mouth flush to his, smothering out his next plea of _more_. There’s no hesitation now, just a beat where Yuri poses himself, and then _thrusts_ , bottoming out in a single greedy motion, and then withdrawing, and once again — and again — and —

Victor’s moans from earlier are nothing, compared to the noises escaping him now, as Yuri rocks against him, fast, strong. Victor cries out, and can only barely hear himself over the sound of the mattress squeaking, and the roar of blood in his ears, and Yuri’s helpless moans. Victor wraps his arms around Yuri’s neck, and he clutches, with passion, and with wordless begging, wanting this never to end, wanting him never to go, only wanting for him to be closer and closer and closer.

Victor is the one that comes first, not intending it. Some part of him had nourished thoughts of bringing Yuri to climax first, benevolently, and only then showing Yuri the way Victor himself likes it best. But he’s swept up, in everything. The world spins. He feels himself spill messily between their stomachs, and a couple good squeezes of his muscle and knees around Yuri’s body are all that’s necessary to bring Yuri along next, emptying desperately inside him.

:::

A normal person might be taken in by the throes of their own exertion; they would become boneless with satisfaction, and collapse against him, serene. Yuri looks like he might, but then something clouds his face; not even a minute has passed and he’s embarrassed. He bites his lip and looks like he might get up right then to retrieve tissues.

“Don’t,” Victor says, with a voice that he is surprised to discover is hoarse. “Stay here. Beside me.”

Before Yuri can protest, he grabs him, and drags him down over him. Yuri stiffens, and then, sweetly, relaxes.

“Yuri.”

“Ah…yes…?”

“What do you think? Good enough to remember?”

Yuri laughs, lightly. “Yes.”

They’re a mess. They’re breathing hard, and it takes a couple moments, to synchronize their panting, so their chests align with every breath. Victor sets his right hand on Yuri’s face, caressing it, gently. The ring is already starting to feel like his hand was meant to have it. So too, is Yuri’s presence.

They look at each other, and then Victor speaks. Quietly.

“Yuri. I want to tell you something that you should also remember, for tomorrow.”

“Alright,” Yuri says, with some bewilderment. Victor smiles. He takes another couple moments, to work the words around his mouth, to hope that he’ll pronounce them correctly. He takes another couple moments to steel himself.

In the end, they come out as a whisper. A certain phrase he’d happened to learn when sitting by himself on an airplane a long time ago, something he hopes Yuri will hear as plainly as possible, without room for mistranslations. Yuri reddens, but the smile he makes is as bright as light glinting off the ice.

Yuri’s mouth opens. Then, to Victor’s surprise, Yuri replies, slowly. What he says next is in Victor’s mother tongue, but he catches it, hears it perfectly despite the slipping syllables, knows that Yuri is repeating exactly what Victor said. Victor feels his insides all at once become as tender as a bruise. He grabs Yuri with fervor, squeezes him until Yuri’s glasses go out of alignment.

“V-Victor,” he coughs breathlessly.

“Sorry,” Victor says, without too much apology. He squeezes even tighter, and Yuri doesn’t ask him to let go.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! let me know if you liked it :')


End file.
